


Excuse Me For My Plastic Taste

by mellowthunder



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, One Shot, Past Character Death, pottymouth Baekhyun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 09:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19391755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellowthunder/pseuds/mellowthunder
Summary: Sehun smells like wood sage, sea salt, and something else Chanyeol can’t quite name - but it makes him sad.





	Excuse Me For My Plastic Taste

Chanyeol’s collarbones are sticky with holographic body glitter as pushy hands grab at the bare skin beneath his double-breasted leather coat.

He’s opening for Ha Sang Beg’s F/W collection at Seoul Fashion Week, and—somewhere over Baekhyun’s frantic murmurs as he smokes out the black around Chanyeol’s eyes—he dimly registers the drone of excited models, stressed designers and the steady thud of stage music. 

A hand angrily pinches his thigh.

“Stop biting your lip or god help me, I will rip them off your face,” Baekhyun fumes, attacking Chanyeol’s bottom lip with a Q-tip in an attempt to salvage the ruined lipstick. He huffs and pulls a bedazzled golden tube from the pouch at his waist, cursing angrily beneath his breath. A frown tugs at his lips as he uncaps it, fixing exasperated eyes on Chanyeol.

Chanyeol grins, forever amused by peeved Byun Baekhyun.

“Sorry. Nerves,” he replies.

Tense fingers drum against crossed legs as he releases a heavy breath. It isn’t even his first show. He should be used to the chaos - the cacophony of noises and images, the pre-show anticipation as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

Ten months ago, he’d have laughed in anyone’s face if they’d told him he’d be the most up-and-coming face of Seoul’s notorious fashion scene. Gangly, awkward, struggling guitarist Park Chanyeol – living off Shin Ramyeon and sleeping on friends’ couches. Hopelessly underpaid as he struggled to make ends meet through guitar lessons and shoddy gigs in back-end alley bars.

That had been before he’d been dragged one morning, half-asleep and delirious, onto a MAPS magazine set by a livid Baekhyun.

Somewhere between his 4 a.m. stupor and the beauty blender pounding violently against his face, he’d just barely made out the makeup artist screeching about irresponsible dicks dropping out last minute and _who does that asshole think he is, Jang Kiyong?!_ The rest of the memory was lost between folds of billowing fabric, blinding strobe lights, and appreciative hums from an overzealous photographer.

Two weeks later, he’d woken to 35k new followers on Instagram and e-mails from six different modelling agencies.

Chanyeol’s lips quirk wryly as he recalls the memory of sitting in YG K Plus’ HR office, silently questioning his life choices as he shakily signed his future away to sterile executives in Armani dress suits.

“Why are you doing that with your face?” Baekhyun grits through his teeth, attacking Chanyeol’s jawline with a fluffy powder brush. “Stop smiling, models don’t smile.” He punctuates each word with a jab of his brush.

Chanyeol winces, twisting his head away. “Are bruises part of the look?” 

“Beauty is pain,” Baekhyun snaps, but loosens his hold on the brush handle and powders Chanyeol’s face with less force.

“One assistant. They couldn’t spare me _one_ assistant. My craft is so underappreciated.”

Chanyeol laughs affectionately, looking at his friend’s frazzled image through the mirror. They’d come a long way since sixth grade, when they’d met on the school playground.

_What’s that?_ _A shadow fell over 11-year old Chanyeol as he sat hunched over his backpack. He yelped and clutched the bag closer to his chest._

_A small boy with mousy brown hair and downturned eyes stared curiously at him, hands wrapped around a paper cup of ddukbokki. He grinned toothily as Chanyeol’s wide eyes met his._

_N-nothing, Chanyeol stuttered, nervously pushing his round glasses up his nose bridge. He squeaked quietly as his bag squirmed and a small furry face popped its head out through the half-zipped opening._

_Cool! the boy bent low to pet the tiny ferret. His eyes sparkled excitedly as he turned to beam at Chanyeol._

_His name’s Ddori, Chanyeol said shyly and the boy clicked his tongue softly as he cooed, hi Ddori. Chanyeol grinned, chubby cheeks puffing happily._

_What’s wrong with your face? The boy frowned as he saw Chanyeol smiling. You have so many teeth._

_Chanyeol ducked his head and quietly mumbled sorry. The boy laughed. He held out the cup in his hand and smiled brightly, eyes folding into small lines._

_I’m Baekhyun. Let’s be friends._

“Shit, not him.”

Baekhyun’s moan rips him out of his reverie. He raises his eyes to see balled fists and an incredulous look on his friend’s face.

Following his glare, he squints beyond a rack of OiOi outerwear and makes out long legs wrapped in dark velvet, and a naked torso. Up past an impossibly thin waist and impossibly broad shoulders, past razor-sharp collarbones and a dangerous v-line, and his eyes stop at wet platinum strands falling into a pale face.

Dark eyes shift to meet Chanyeol’s and he honestly couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“Of course, his royal highness is back. _Of course_ ,” Baekhyun seethes. He wrings his wrists with frustration and resumes pinching Chanyeol’s face with renewed vigor.

“Who?” Chanyeol asks, eyes still fixed to the blond. He’s turned away now, addressing a small woman next to him who bites her lip and shakes her head fretfully. Silver body jewels stream down his back, highlighting the dips and ridges of his spine.

Chanyeol swallows thickly.

“Oh Sehun. Or Prince Sehun, as his fans call him.” Baekhyun grumbles, jamming a bobby pin against Chanyeol’s scalp. “The legend himself. Esteem sent agents to his high school every day for three years until he finally agreed to sign with them.” A yank on his sideburns and another stab of a bobby pin.

Esteem was a big deal. Only top tier models were offered a contract with Esteem. He’d met seniors at his model training academy who’d been preparing to audition for Esteem since they were 10. 

“He’s shortlisted on every runway show and photo shoot in Seoul and Hong Kong for the next two years. Seoul’s golden It Boy, and the fucker knows it,” Baekhyun scowls. “At least he was, before he went incognito five months ago.”

He pauses, lips pursed in thought. Glancing around, he leans in close to whisper to Chanyeol.

“Last time anyone saw him was at fashion week in New York. With Marc Jacobs himself.”

Sehun’s eyes flash toward Chanyeol, as if he’d overheard their conversation despite the impossible distance. Chanyeol averts his gaze, hastily staring down at the heavy rings lining his fingers. A silver snake peers up at him from his thumb, eyes encrusted with rubies. Chanyeol slowly twists it – a nervous habit.

“Crap, he’s coming over.”

He whips his head up at Baekhyun’s panicked gasp and trails Sehun’s figure as he slowly weaves through the backstage pandemonium. A harried-looking crew member sprints past, pausing to shout something at Sehun as he holds up five fingers. Sehun nods absently, murmuring a response, and continues toward Baekhyun’s work station. Chanyeol grips his knees, frozen in place.

“Byun Baekhyun.”

His voice is higher than Chanyeol expects, boyish and a touch nasally. The address is directed at Baekhyun, but heavily-lined eyes bore unflinchingly into Chanyeol’s face. Up close, he looks even better. Shimmering highlighter glints off the tops of his cheekbones, and Chanyeol clutches his knees a bit tighter.

“Sehun. Haven’t seen you around,” Baekhyun’s face is carefully neutral but Chanyeol has known him long enough to sense the tension rolling off his shoulders in thick waves.

Sehun's hum is noncommittal. He raises a slim hand—all muscles and long fingers—and holds it out toward Chanyeol.

“Oh Sehun.”

Chanyeol’s hand feels heavy, like it doesn’t belong to him. He dazedly reaches out and grasps the outstretched palm. Sehun's skin feels cool, smooth to the touch.

Chanyeol’s throat is on fire when he speaks. “Park Chanyeol,” he croaks.

Sehun’s lips lift in the shadow of a smile, dark eyes unreadable.

“I know.”

\---

Min Hyunwoo is both South Korea’s most revered and feared fashion photographer for a reason.

They’re three hours and eleven rolls of film into their pictorial for W Korea when he grunts in frustration and barks for a ten-minute break. A rough hand rakes through heavily greased hair as he stomps toward the entrance of the rooftop lounge at the Banyan Tree Club and Spa in Seoul.

Chanyeol lets out a deep breath as he swims to the edge of the pool, pulling himself up into Baekhyun’s towel-ready hands.

“Sadistic bastard,” Baekhyun scowls, carefully patting Chanyeol’s face dry so as to not ruin his makeup. “Don’t worry, you look fucking fabulous. The miserable asshole’s in one of his moods today because Jun Jihyun snubbed him at the Elle party last night.”

Chanyeol chuckles, rotating his neck to loosen the sore muscles. A white dress shirt clings wetly to his skin and his eyes burn from the chlorine in the pool - but the early summer weather warms his mood, and it’d taken his agency months to slot him in with Hyunwoo. He could deal with a bit of water for a few hours.

“Chanyeol-ssi, would you like something to drink?”

A short male with serious brown eyes approaches them, holding out an umbrella to shield Chanyeol from the strong sunlight. He pushes up the frame of his black glasses as he patiently awaits Chanyeol’s response.

“Actually, I could kill for an iced coffee right now.” Chanyeol smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Kyungsoo.” 

Kyungsoo nods earnestly, jotting something down in a small notebook he produces from his back pocket. He turns toward the pool bar, breaking into a light jog halfway and Baekhyun moans lewdly from where he watches him with Chanyeol.

“The ass on that boy.”

“Hands off the intern, Baek.”

Baekhyun’s eyes glint wickedly as he wriggles his fingers at Chanyeol. “Oh, I’d give him more than just my hands.” 

Chanyeol laughs, leaning back on his hands as his legs dangle in the water. Moments like these are when he remembers to be 24 and carefree, the burden and insecurities of being a public figure temporarily forgotten. He lets his eyelids drift shut and feels the tension lift from his limbs. The sun feels warm on his skin and for a minute, Chanyeol is weightless, drifting away into forever.

“What are you doing here?”

Baekhyun’s startled voice drags him back to the present.

He opens his heavy eyelids to see Sehun standing in front of them, wearing tight leather pants and a silky black shirt despite the warm weather. His hair is darker than it had been the last time they’d seen him—closer to gold than platinum—and longer. His lips twitch when their eyes meet and Chanyeol notices they are painted soft pink.

“Music video shoot downstairs,” Sehun replies breezily. “Needed air. They're still packing up.” He jerks his head in a small nod. “Park Chanyeol.”

“Sehun,” Chanyeol mumbles.

Their brief meeting at Seoul Fashion Week had been cut short with Sehun being whisked to standby in a flurry of clipboards and hairspray. He’d been the first to walk for Han Chul Lee – the opener for the entire show. Chanyeol had watched him through the massive feedback monitor as Sehun strode down the runway, all sharp angles and smooth lines.

The models backstage had burst into reverent applause and exclamations of _he’s back_ and _Prince Sehun_ as they observed his disinterested frown transform into an intense smolder. Chanyeol had gnawed ferociously at his bottom lip the entire time, for a whole different reason.

That had been three months ago.

Meeting Sehun here feels just as jarring as the first time, and Chanyeol’s stomach floods uncomfortably with warmth as he takes in the thin silver hoop in Sehun’s ear, the pale skin peeking through his unbuttoned neckline.

“Min Hyunwoo?” A single brow lifts in amusement. “He hasn’t thrown anything at you yet?” Chanyeol grimaces.

“Not yet, though he’s getting there,” he sighs, running a frustrated hand through his wet hair. “It’s me. I’m too stiff, I can’t get the angle he wants.”

“You’re fine,” Baekhyun growls. “We’re all fine actually. Just peachy.” He crosses his arms, looking pointedly at Sehun.

Both eyebrows rise this time. Sehun regards Baekhyun, eyes narrowing at the hostile tone. Baekhyun is a good head shorter than the model but his eyes are unwavering as they meet Sehun’s.

A tense moment passes as they lock gazes, then Sehun smirks and turns to Chanyeol.

“Show me.” 

It’s neither a demand or a request. Spoken simply, as if stating a truth that had yet to happen.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Chanyeol.” Baekhyun’s eyes are still fixed to Sehun as a line works between his brows.

Suddenly, the sun feels scorching hot on Chanyeol’s back. He pulls at his sleeves, feeling suffocated by the tight material. A bead of sweat drips down the back of his neck.

“Show me.” Softer this time.

Chanyeol lifts his eyes to meet Sehun’s. They crinkle—just the tiniest bit—and Chanyeol shrugs, sliding closer to the pool’s edge. Gingerly lowering himself into the cool water, he takes a deep breath and dives beneath the surface.

All the noises of the outside world fade to a lull as the water wraps around him. His skin tingles where tiny currents flow against his body and Chanyeol wonders for a moment what it would be like to stay like this forever, floating in the gap between two worlds. Weightless, existing in two spaces yet neither. Then gravity takes over and slowly drags him upwards.

His eyes snap open as he breaks through the surface, stretching his neck out and his head back. Raising his hands to rest at his shoulders, he looks ahead to see Sehun kneeling at the edge of the pool.

The water is cold, but Chanyeol feels hot where Sehun’s eyes drag over his skin, pausing once at his hands and again at his neck.

“You’re putting too much force in your neck.”

Then cool hands are on his heated skin, one pushing down to release the tension in his shoulders and the other cradling his chin to tilt his jaw up. He feels his head rest against something solid and realises it is Sehun’s chest, supporting his weight as he floats against the cement border.

 _Sehun’s eyes have golden flecks_ , he realises as he stares into them.

From this distance, he can count the individual eyelashes, can see the flash of an unnamed emotion as it flickers by and Chanyeol feels like he’s drowning.

“Hold.”

The loud click of a shutter sounds and Chanyeol tears his eyes away from Sehun’s face to see Min Hyunwoo feverishly winding the film lever of his camera. His eyes are bright with excitement, half-lit cigarette hanging from his lips.

“That’s perfect. That’s exactly what I was looking for,” he crows delightedly. “Tilt your lips more toward his temple.”

Sehun obliges and Chanyeol prays he doesn’t hear the thundering in his throat.

Hyunwoo makes them pose through three more rolls of film and plants fat kisses on both their cheeks as he saunters off, cackling about _pieces de resistance_ and artistic genius. He gleefully smacks Kyungsoo’s butt as he passes carrying drinks, and Baekhyun squeaks with dismay.

Later, Chanyeol sits with Sehun at a poolside table, changed out of his wet clothing.

“Thanks.” He smiles shyly, clutching the iced coffee Kyungsoo had brought back for him.

Sehun's eyebrows scrunch unreadably as he studies Chanyeol and Chanyeol feels his cheeks flare beneath Sehun’s scrutiny. He takes a distracted sip from his straw.

He jerks back, surprised, at the touch of Sehun’s fingers on his cheek. Sehun smiles as he wipes away a drop of sweat. 

“Are you hot?” he asks.

Chanyeol shrugs, embarrassed. “Aren’t you?”

Sehun’s smile widens, eyes collapsing into crescents. He leans forward, wrapping his lips around Chanyeol’s straw and stealing a sip from his iced coffee.

“Maybe,” he replies.

\---

Tokyo is a coincidence. 

Chanyeol’s just finished filming a campaign for Men’s Non-No and he’s flicking through the racks at Commes Des Garcon’s Aoyama flagship store for presents (at his sister’s insistence), when he hears the shop assistants break into excited whispers.

He turns to see the cause of commotion and finds himself face to-face-with Sehun, bare-faced and clad top-bottom in black Alexander Wang.

There’s a thin scar visible on Sehun’s right cheek and a tiny mole at the base of his neck. He looks different without the heavy makeup - more like a normal boy, less like Korea’s youngest sex symbol. Chanyeol’s in full discretion mode—baseball cap pushed low on his head and mask fixed in place—but Sehun’s eyes light up in instant recognition. 

“Are you stalking me?” he jokes, laughing softly. Chanyeol tilts his head at the sound. He’s never heard Sehun laugh before – he wonders if anybody really has. Something tells him it’s a rare occurrence. It’s a nice sound, light and airy. Chanyeol wishes he could listen longer.

“Maybe you're following me,” he grins. “You like me that much, huh?” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. He pauses, stunned at his own confidence. 

Sehun’s eyes flash and Chanyeol feels a familiar warmth burning low in his stomach.

“Here for work?” Sehun asks.

“Just wrapped up.”

“How long are you here?”

“I’m flying back to Seoul tomorrow.”

“Have dinner with me, then.”

It’s said in that same ambiguous way – neither a demand or a request. Like a detached comment, a statement of fact.

Chanyeol stares into the gold of Sehun’s eyes and knows he won’t say no.

They leave together amidst scandalous whispers, taking the metro out to Kichijoji. Sehun guides him to a tiny bar near Inokashira Park, where they squeeze next to each other on two of the six stools surrounding the kitchen space. It’s a tight fit, but the owner greets them energetically and Chanyeol’s nose fills with the savoury scent of kushiyaki. Miles Davis plays lowly in the background, and Chanyeol finds out Sehun is a lightweight two Highballs into their debate over live-action manga adaptations.

“Absolutely fucking not, _Saiki K_. was trash.” Chanyeol splutters indignantly, setting his glass down with too much force. Sehun smiles, amused by his outburst.

“Yeah, but it was so bad that it was kind of ingenious, you know?”

“But that wig!” Chanyeol groans in horror, tugging at his hair. Sehun cocks a brow.

“Two words. Yamazaki Kento.”

Chanyeol bows his head in defeat, clinging his glass against Sehun’s.

Time flows easily as they exchange words, tongues loose on Suntory and conversation. Sehun leans more heavily against Chanyeol as the empty glasses in front of them steadily pile up and Chanyeol’s shoulder burns from the contact.

There’s a lull in their banter as they both stare down at the table, lost in their own thoughts. The background hums with the sound of smooth jazz and hushed Japanese. Chanyeol studies Sehun, hand propped against his cheek, and is hit by a wave of curiosity.

“Where were you before Seoul Fashion Week?” he asks quietly. 

_Why didn’t I see you before then?_

Sehun stares unblinkingly ahead, lips pursed in a thin line. The noises inside the bar seem to amplify as the silence between them shifts, thickens. Chanyeol fidgets with the thin ring around his pinkie.

“Busan." 

Sehun's finger traces the rim of the Highball glass in front of him.

“Travelling?”

“Searching.”

“For what?”

Sehun turns and looks at Chanyeol. His eyes are red – from the alcohol? From fatigue? He looks older. Years older than 22 when he’s staring at Chanyeol like this, when his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows unsaid words, when his tongue peeks out to wet dry lips.

Chanyeol follows the movement with his eyes, leans forward in his chair. He smells wood sage and sea salt. Whisky, and something else he can’t name - but it makes him sad. Sehun’s face is inches away.

Sehun twists in his seat, pulling away. He blinks at the glass in his hands. It’s empty.

“I don’t know.”

\---

They barely manage to catch the last train back to the city. 

Stumbling into a taxi outside Shinjuku Station, Chanyeol is hyper-aware of Sehun’s hand on his thigh, his cheek pressed against his shoulder. Sehun mumbles softly against Chanyeol’s arm, head lolling as they ride past mazes of commercial neon to Sehun's hotel. His weight is heavy as Chanyeol drags them into the suite. 

It’s a large room – too big for one person.

A magazine lies open on the coffee table next to an empty ashtray. It’s the June issue of W Korea, the one they’d shot last month with Hyunwoo. Chanyeol's half-lidded eyes peer out at him from the pages, fingers grazing Sehun’s neck. He swallows the lump in his throat. 

Sehun’s skin is cold when Chanyeol pulls the sweater over his head. There’s a thin silver chain hanging from his neck that had escaped notice earlier beneath his clothes. A small cross hangs at the end of it, rising and falling against Sehun’s chest as he breathes. Chanyeol’s eyes trace shadowed ribs trailing down to a flat stomach, pale and unblemished.

He looks away, grabbing the blanket covers and lifting them over Sehun’s shoulders.

There’s a soft buzz as his phone alights with another incoming message – probably Baekhyun, demanding to know why he hasn’t replied to his previous 27 texts. He’ll deal with his fury later. 

Exhaustion grips at his eyelids and tugs them down as he throws himself onto the sofa in the living room. He feels his mind start to fog and welcomes the lightness as his body sinks into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The suite is empty when he wakes up the next morning.

\---

“ _Chartreuse?_ Who am I, Jeremy Scott?!”

Kim Jongdae is 173 cm of outrage and Diptyque body mist as he scowls at the array of scarves held out by a wide-eyed Kyungsoo.

“I- I just- you said green, so,“ he splutters helplessly. 

Jongdae smiles dangerously. He lifts a square of silk off Kyungsoo’s clipboard and holds it up to his face.

“Yes, Kyungsoo-ssi. Green. Cool-toned green,” he growls. “Do you recall seeing this bastardised _yellow_ in the personal colour profile?”

“N-no sir, I-“

“Then why are you still here, _Do Kyungsoo-ssi_?!” Jongdae barks, and Kyungsoo audibly gulps as he bows and scurries out of the room.

“The new ones are so cute,” Jongdae sighs, turning to face Chanyeol. “So clueless, so naïve. Where were we? Ah, yes.”

Chanyeol muffles a laugh as the stylist slips a safety pin into Chanyeol’s burgundy red suit. He’s in a private suite, being dressed for the Seoul Girls’ Collection show at the Walkerhill Hotel.

“You need to stop terrorizing our interns, Dae.”

Jongdae smirks. “Oh, he’s got one of those faces though. Makes you want to see him squirm.” He mutters indecisively, weighing a pair of emerald cufflinks in his palm.

“Careful, Baekhyun’s got his eyes on him.”

“I never turn down a good threesome,” Jongdae smirks, attaching the cufflinks and loosening another button on Chanyeol’s dress shirt. “Baekhyun looks like a screamer.”

He cackles wickedly.

“Are you done?”

Chanyeol turns to see a slim girl leaning against the door, black hair falling in thick waves down her back.

Jung Soojung, the nation’s ice princess.

There’s a famous saying about Soojung in the modelling community: _don’t look her in the eyes, she’ll turn you into crystal._

Chanyeol had only ever heard of her from other models or glimpsed her in passing at the YG K Plus building. Not even Baekhyun—who knew everything about everybody—knew much about her, so shrouded was she in privacy.

Tonight however she’s shrouded in a necklace of pearls and white Versace silk - dual representatives for their agency with Chanyeol. 

Jongdae shrieks delightedly, shoving Chanyeol’s back and pushing him to Soojung’s side. “You two are a _look_.” He wipes a fake tear. “I did you good.”

Chanyeol exchanges bemused looks with Soojung. “You look great.” She shrugs.

“That’s why we’re here.” She scans him up and down appreciatively. “Not bad.”

Chanyeol’s reply is interrupted by Kyungsoo racing back in with a fistful of green silk.

“Green,” he pants. “Cool-toned.”

“Good boy,” Jongdae says, winking at Chanyeol.

And he pats Kyungsoo’s head.

\---

The live show ends in a cacophony of fireworks and exclamations as the idols and models share the stage for the finale.

A sea of camera flashes burst as they wave out at the audience, bodies falling into sultry poses and seasoned fan service. Chanyeol exchanges bows with Itzy and NCT as they pass each other on the way to the after party, Soojung on his arm.

The hotel ballroom has been transformed into a monstrously lavish display, all black velvet and gold detail. Waiters navigate the room, trays filled with appetisers and flutes of champagne. A DJ booth sits in the middle of the vast space, and Seoul’s hottest and filthy rich sway to the pulsing bass.

The whole room reeks of celebrity plastic and lascivious glamour.

“Chanyeol. Soojung,” Han Hyejin approaches, wrapping long arms around them in greeting. Her lips glow bright red in the spinning overhead lights. “I saw your cover for W. Hyunwoo tells me you’re his new muse,” she says as she pinches Chanyeol's cheek.

Chanyeol chuckles politely, dipping his head in a small bow for his top model senior. “I've got a long way to go before I catch up to you, sunbae-nim.”

“Call me noona.” Hyejin laughs airily. “Ah, Yoonju’s here. I’ll see you later, if I’m still standing.” She waves at someone behind them and glides by on sparkling Manolo Blahniks. 

Soojung turns to face him. “Restroom. Grab us drinks.” She doesn't wait for his reply before melting into the crowd, a shimmering silhouette of white.

A bar set-up takes up the side wall of the ballroom, decorated in a crisscrossing net of black and gold to match the theme. Chanyeol works his way across the room, pausing to nod at familiar faces and wrapping his arms around strangers for god-knows-what-SNS-account.

A stool opens up as he reaches the bar and he slides onto it, mouthing _whatever_ as he holds up two fingers toward the bartender.

“Hey, stranger.”

It’s been two weeks, but his body reacts automatically. His ears erupt into heat, recognising the boyish tone, and he whips around in his seat.

Sehun smiles from where he’s standing behind Chanyeol, eyes curved into half-moons. He’s dressed in cobalt blue tonight, blazer exposed to reveal a plunging neckline and several thin chains stacked in layers against his chest.

His hair is ink black. Chanyeol’s mouth feels dry as he eyes the dark strands contrasting against pale skin.

“You dyed your hair,” he replies.

“Uncoloured it, actually.” Sehun shrugs and absently fingers a strand. He quirks his lips. “Now we match.”

“Where did you go?” Chanyeol cuts straight to the chase. His eyes burn intensely into Sehun. “After Tokyo. I tried to reach you through your manager, but he said he couldn’t get in touch either.”

Sehun’s face is blank as he looks away, out at the gyrating figures on the dance floor. His expression gives nothing away—the perfect poker face—but Chanyeol sees his knuckles pop as his fists clench.

“Away. Needed a breather.” He blinks, turning back to face Chanyeol. “Modelling gets old after a while, don’t you think?”

The calm smile is back on his lips.

Chanyeol scoffs. “You could have left a note or something.” The bartender returns with his drinks and Chanyeol stares into the amber liquid as he grabs a glass and turns it slowly.

Sehun laughs, high-pitched and ringing. His eyes are warm when he looks at Chanyeol and Chanyeol thinks it's unfair that Sehun probably knows exactly what he’s doing. His feels his irritation ebbing away.

“Maybe next time.”

“You’ll disappear again?”

“Only for a bit.”

“When?”

“I’ll know when it happens.”

“Alone?”

“It’s simpler that way.”

Chanyeol blinks, eyebrows creasing as he hears a familiar ring in Sehun’s voice. It’s the same nameless emotion he’d heard in Tokyo. He stares at Sehun’s eyes – almost black in the dim lighting of the ballroom.

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly. “Be alone, that is.”

Sehun’s voice is barely a whisper when he speaks, eyes heavy on Chanyeol's face. There's a troubled slant to his eyebrows.

“I know.”

A streak of white cuts Chanyeol off before he can reply. He doesn’t quite register how it happens. But one moment, Sehun’s slowly leaning in toward his body – and the next moment he’s clutching the bar for support, hand against his face.

Soojung stands over Sehun’s fallen figure, face white and shaking with anger as she breathes heavily.

“How dare you,” she spits venomously. “How dare you show your face here.”

She raises her hand to deliver another strike, but Sehun’s recovered enough to grab her wrist before she can make contact. 

“Soojung.” His voice is strained as he levels his eyes with hers.

“Don’t touch me,” she screams, struggling against his grip. Her voice captures the attention of the other guests at the bar and they halt conversation to stare at the scene. A few heads turn from the edge of the dance floor.

“Soojung, please.”

“Fuck you. Fuck you, Oh Sehun. It was you.”

Sehun slackens his grip on her wrist and Soojung’s eyes are wild as she grabs his collar and delivers blow after blow to his face. Sehun doesn’t fight back.

Chanyeol finally snaps back into his body when he sees Sehun’s lip split open. He wraps his arms around Soojung’s shoulders and pulls her away, whispering urgently into her ear. She struggles angrily for a second then collapses against him, tears streaming down her face.

“Let me,” Hyejin steps up beside them—eyes worried and alert—and hugs Soojung to her chest. She gently leads her away from the curious crowd, stroking her fingers through Soojung’s disheveled hair.

Sehun stares emptily at the floor, lips wet with blood. Angry scratch marks glow red on his neck and there’s a small tear at his collar where Soojung had grabbed him. The crowd around them hums with hushed whispers and Chanyeol hears the sharp click of several cellphone cameras.

“Can you walk?” he murmurs.

Sehun nods and Chanyeol reaches out, carefully taking Sehun’s arm and coaxing him away from the bar.

His legs move on auto-pilot as he blindly shoves their way out of the ballroom and through the hotel lobby, ignoring probing eyes as they pass the front desk and stumble into the elevator.

Sehun is still as stone as Chanyeol presses the button for his floor and releases a shaky sigh. He pulls his phone from his pocket and types out a quick text.

 _@ the walker. can u come take soojung home?_ _  
_

His phone pings with Baekhyun’s response almost immediately. _leaving now. explain later._

He slumps against the elevator wall, body still thrumming from adrenaline as he processes the scene from the ballroom. 

“Does it hurt?”

Sehun doesn’t utter a sound, eyes glazed as he slowly shakes his head from side to side.

He’s still silent when Chanyeol leads him through the front door of his suite, seats him on the sofa in the living room, pulls the blazer off his shoulders. There’s some fumbling as Chanyeol digs through drawers and cabinets for a first aid kit, then quiet again as he rips open an antiseptic wipe and dips the end of a Q-tip in healing salve.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

He cautiously lifts Sehun’s chin so he can gently dab at the scratch on his neck, the small cut on his lip. Sehun’s eyes shine in the dim light of the table lamp as Chanyeol’s fingers hover over the faint bruise blooming on his cheek.

He hesitates, then ghosts his fingertips over the cool skin.

Something flickers in Sehun’s eyes as he slowly lifts a hand to cover Chanyeol’s. Goosebumps break out across the skin where they touch and Chanyeol is hit by a wave of Sehun’s cologne as he leans forward.

There's an invisible static in the air - the same electric current from Tokyo all over again, and the gold in Sehun’s eyes glows impossibly bright, and warm lips are pressed against his, and Chanyeol forgets to breathe.

He breaks away first, tilting his head to gauge Sehun’s reaction, hands wrapped around Sehun’s wrists like he might disappear.

“That hurts,” Sehun says finally.

He pulls Chanyeol close and kisses him again.

\---

They fuck against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Chanyeol’s suite, glass fogging from their heavy pants as they grind against each other high above the lights of the city.

Chanyeol swallows Sehun’s moans as he licks and bites at his bottom lip, kisses the small scar on Sehun’s right cheek. His head throbs dully as Sehun mouths at his neck, and he comes to the sensation of Sehun’s fingers digging into his back, squeezing vicelike around him.

Later, as they lie in the crumpled bedsheets of the too-large bed, Chanyeol studies Sehun’s sleeping face—traces the edges with his fingertips—and wonders why he looks so sad.

He’s not surprised when he wakes to an empty bed.

\---

“You cancelled Moto Guo for _this_?" 

Chanyeol can literally feel Baekhyun’s heavy disapproval as he frowns down at him. He’s dyed his hair pastel pink, and the blue contacts he’s wearing today contrasts dramatically with his new hair. Chanyeol absently thinks he looks like an irate pixie.

“Stomach flu,” he shrugs. He reclines deeper into his sofa and takes another bite of cold pizza. A _Queer Eye_ re-run plays on his monitor and Chanyeol blinks as Tan France delivers a sermon on French tucks.

“Stomach flu my ass, though it’s no wonder if you’re eating this shit.”

Baekhyun scrunches his nose delicately and stares horrified at the half-empty Mr. Pizza box on the coffee table. “Park Chanyeol, you are a _model_.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Then drink a fucking protein shake,” Baekhyun flings his arms up in despair and narrows his eyes at Chanyeol. “Something’s up. Speak. What happened yesterday?”

There’s no point in lying to him. They’ve known each other too long, seen the worst of their respective demons. Baekhyun will see through any lies and give him hell on Earth to punish him.

“I saw Sehun. Last night. And in Tokyo.”

Baekhyun’s brows shoot up. 

“He- at the after party. Soojung, she seemed really upset,” Chanyeol continues. “Just attacked him out of nowhere.”

He's not surprised, but his curiosity does flare as he watches Baekhyun bite down on his thumb and slump against the couch next to Chanyeol. 

“Why do you hate him so much?”

Baekhyun’s eyes slide toward him. There’s a storm of emotions swimming in the blue of his lenses as he blinks rapidly.

“I don’t hate him,” he finally mumbles. “But he’s bad news, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol furrows his brows in confusion. “Why?” _Bad news_? 

Baekhyun sighs and sullenly smacks Chanyeol’s leg. A minute passes before he speaks again.

“Remember Jongin?”

“From the modelling academy?”

“Yeah.”

He does.

Kim Jongin had been a 19-year old whirlwind of tan skin and hiccoughing laughs. They’d taken walking classes at the same academy – Jongin, a perpetually smiley youth fresh up from Busan, cracking jokes in poorly disguised satoori as Chanyeol struggled to control his limbs. They’d sit in front of 7-11 after class, drinking Vita 500 and watching SHINee videos on Chanyeol’s cracked monitor.

The last time he’d seen him had been at Jongin's hostel as he packed for New York. He’d been scouted to walk for Christian Siriano. 

_Next season, let’s walk together hyung._ Jongin had grinned, stuffing socks wildly into his suitcase.

They’d fallen out of touch after that, but Chanyeol had assumed they’d run into each other again eventually. The modelling world was small.

“What about him?” he asks, confused.

“He and Soojung dated in high school. They were pretty serious for a while.”

Jongin had never mentioned.

“He… he did a shoot in New York. After fashion week. With Oh Sehun.”

“Okay? And…?” Chanyeol lifts a brow. Nothing sounds particularly off about Baekhyun's words. Typical modelling schedule.

Baekhyun takes a deep breath and fixes solemn eyes on Chanyeol. Something in his expression makes the hairs on the back of Chanyeol’s neck stand, even before the words are out of his mouth.

“And, well… Jongin’s dead, Chanyeol. OD'ed.” Baekhyun voice is barely a whisper. 

“Sehun’s the one who called it in.”

\---

August in Seoul is sunlight glinting off skyscrapers, asphalt evaporating into murky downtown smog as beads of sweat drip down damp collars.

Sleek thighs jut out beneath shameless hemlines as tiny mini-fans are held up against heated cheeks, and there’s a heaviness that hangs over the city - a metaphysical cloud of lethargy that beats down on the worn cement in searing waves.

Civilians develop a certain gait, slow and languid – the remnants of nights dancing off the heat on pulsing dance floors and crowed Han River parks, days of _it’s-just-too-fucking-hot_.

Chanyeol’s in Garosu-gil shooting for Alan Crocetti when he gets a call from an unknown number.

 _It’s me_ , Sehun’s voice sounds small. It’s been three weeks since Chanyeol’s last heard it. _Can we meet?_

They wind up at a quiet café behind the Gentle Monster building, untouched Americanos sitting between them, watching passersby cross the street through the wide window next to them. A grandfather clock sways loudly in its corner from the opposite wall, filling the room with its noise.

_Tick, tick, tick._

“I’m going to London.”

Chanyeol blinks. _Oh._

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“For work?”

“No.”

Condensation drips down Chanyeol’s glass. He wets his lips to speak.

“How long?”

“Long enough.” The corner of Sehun’s lips twitch. The cut from the live show had healed completely. “You told me to leave you a note, remember?”

Chanyeol’s voice is thick with disappointment as he forces a quiet laugh. He looks down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap then looks at Sehun’s.

They’re shaking, just barely. Chanyeol has never wanted to hold them so badly. He closes his eyes and throws his head back against his seat.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Leave, that is.”

“I know.”

Chanyeol lifts his eyes half-open to see Sehun staring intently at him across the table. His lips are pursed, like he's blocking the words from escaping out of his mouth.

He looks away when Chanyeol meets his gaze and fiddles with the silver cross chain around his neck. Chanyeol eyes his quivering fingers as they tug at the thin metal.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” he says simply. Sehun whips his head to look at him. “Jongin. It’s not your fault.”

The shadows beneath Sehun’s eyes are deep as he stares wordlessly at Chanyeol. The clock in the corner ticks loudly. Chanyeol’s pulse thunders in his head.

“He mentioned you,” Sehun mumbles. “In New York.” He strokes the cross on his necklace. “This was his.”

“He was a good guy.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll miss him.”

Sehun’s eyes glisten with emotion as he looks brokenly up at Chanyeol, face devoid of colour. There’s a panicked desperation in the ring of his voice as he speaks.

“I didn’t mean for- I just wanted to help him relax, and we’d been drinking and,” the words spill out of him, “He was wheezing and I didn’t know he had asthma, I just...“ He trails off. “I couldn’t move."

Chanyeol’s voice is careful, gentle. “He would have been sad to see you like this.”

Sehun crumples at his words, face falling into his hands. Chanyeol stares at his trembling back, the messy black hair falling into his eyes, the muscles quivering in his neck and thinks he looks so thin, so small.

Like someone whose been broken, clinging desperately to their glued pieces.

Sehun looks up and his eyes are hollow. Chanyeol’s heart squeezes painfully.

“I gotta go.” He stands abruptly, pushing back his chair as he stumbles toward the entrance.

He doesn’t look back, and Chanyeol doesn’t try to stop him.

What can he do? What can he say?

You can’t fix broken people.

\---

It’s almost 3 a.m. when Chanyeol wakes to an urgent pounding at his front door.

He drags his heavy body from bed and pads into the hallway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he pulls the door open.

Sehun leans against the entrance, suitcase at his feet and breathing heavily. There are dried tear tracks streaking his cheeks and his eyes are bloodshot.

“I’m not leaving,” he stutters through his laboured breaths. He doesn’t look like Oh Sehun, Korea’s unflappable top model, ice prince of the runway. He looks 22 and vulnerable and scared, eyes wide at the threat of rejection as he stares beseechingly at Chanyeol.

Chanyeol reaches out and traces the scar on Sehun’s cheek with the back of his knuckle. The skin is cold, but Sehun's always cold.

“Does it hurt?”

Sehun’s mouth shakes as it parts, and hot tears drop against Chanyeol’s fingers. They roll down his hand and fall onto the floor beneath them.

“Everyday,” he croaks.

So Chanyeol reaches out and pulls Sehun close, gently kisses his temple as Sehun finally breaks and collapses into his chest.

He clutches Chanyeol’s shirt as the sobs rip out of him, like he’s afraid he’ll fade away.

“It’s okay to hurt.”

Chanyeol hugs him tighter and lets him grieve.

\--- 

_Snap._

“Closer.”

_Snap._

“Beautiful! Fantastic!” Min Hyunwoo’s face is red with excitement as he spins the focus ring on his camera and moves closer. “Ah, my boys, my golden pair.”

“Your hand is wandering again,” Chanyeol whispers and Sehun smirks as he gives Chanyeol’s butt a firm squeeze.

“Lift your heads, more mood, more attitude,” Hyunwoo calls out and squints through the viewfinder as his finger taps furiously at the shutter button.

They’re on the roof of Common Ground near Konkuk University, shooting a lookbook for Dazed and Confused. Shoppers mill about on the grounds below them, pausing to take selfies in front of the massive blue shipping containers that make up the shopping complex. Couples walking hand-in-hand exchange laughs as they stroll in the cool autumn air, holding cups of artisanal coffee.

“Cut. Let’s move to the next set.”

Hyunwoo leans against the rail of the rooftop, wiping his forehead with his arm. A hip sack of film rolls clinks lightly at his side.

“I’ve outdone myself.” He cackles delightedly and skips away to shout directions at the lighting crew.

“Stop groping each other, you’re rubbing away your contour.” Baekhyun rolls his eyes as he rushes up to the pair, makeup brush and palette in hand. He dabs delicately at Sehun’s nose, reapplying his highlighter.

Sehun smirks and winks cheekily at him. “Thanks, hyung.”

“Stop that, your mascara will smudge!” Baekhyun briskly whacks him on the head. But his eyes twinkle with affection as he scowls at the smiling model.

“Don’t hurt the boyfriend,” Chanyeol chides, looping his arms around Sehun’s waist. He laughs loudly as Baekhyun scowls again and whacks them both for good measure.

“Baekhyun-ssi, I brought your passionfruit iced tea.” 

Kyungsoo calls out from a short distance as he carefully balances a heavily-laden tray. His eyebrows are scrunched as he focuses on keeping the drinks from falling, lip bitten in concentration.

Baekhyun brightens and tucks a strand of ash grey hair behind his ear. He rushes toward Kyungsoo, arms outstretched.

“Thank you _jagi_ ,” he simpers and pats Kyungsoo’s cheek. Kyungsoo's face reddens and he flails as the tray shakes precariously in his arms.

A slim arm flashes out and steadies the drinks before they can fall.

Soojung raises a thin eyebrow as she tsks at Baekhyun. She’s dressed in vividly printed chiffon today, eyes smoked and hair secured in a sleek ponytail. A brightly painted finger wags disapprovingly in Baekhyun’s face as she narrows her eyes at him.

“No flirting during work.”

Baekhyun smirks devilishly and wiggles mischievous eyebrows at Kyungsoo.

“See you after work then, jagi.”

Kyungsoo’s red face turns a shade darker. He mutters under his breath as he places the tray down on a table, lowering himself meekly into a chair. But there’s a heart-shaped smile on his lips when he peeks at Baekhyun out of the corner of his eyes.

Soojung shrugs and crosses an arm over her chest, stretching. A light breeze passes and her bare leg pokes out from a long slit in her dress as it rustles. Her eyes are bright as she exhales with anticipation.

“Final look, let’s make it good. Soojung-ssi to the centre, if you please.”

Hyunwoo cracks his knuckles as he glides back on set. He eyes the three models and sighs happily, fingers twitching as they reach for his camera.

“Ladies first."

Sehun bends into an exaggerated bow, extending one arm in front of Soojung. She scoffs, smirking as she walks to the centre of the set.

A silver cross glints in the sunlight as it swings from the thin chain around her neck.

\---

Winter in Busan is vicious gusts of wind, whipping at tightly-wrapped scarves and cold cheeks as sea-gulls slowly circle Gwangalli Beach.

Children run excitedly as worried parents nag them not to stray too close to the waves breaking at the shore. There’s a subtle nostalgia juxtaposed against gruff street vendors selling hodduk and roasted chestnuts, couples chatting in satoori as they write their names in the sand.

Chanyeol shivers against the cold as he huddles closer to Sehun where they sit on the steps at the edge of the boardwalk. The January chill seeps through his fingertips and he blows into his hands, chasing momentary warmth.

Sehun laughs next to him, black hair whipping across his face in the wind.

“Told you to wear a proper coat.”

Chanyeol whines and clutches his thin trench coat more tightly against his body.

“Busan’s supposed to be warmer.”

They’d taken the early morning KTX from Seoul Station, slumped sleepily against each other as the train rolled out on the tracks. Chanyeol hazily remembers clutching a white bouquet of flowers as they'd stumbled onto a bus outside Busan Station, yawning as it rolled past quiet neighborhoods and up a small hill.

He’d held Sehun’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly as they’d laid the bouquet at Jongin’s grave.

Sehun hums softly, gazing out at the swirling water. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“I’m glad I came.”

“Me too.”

Sehun’s eyes glint gold when he looks at Chanyeol. There are still faint shadows beneath them, tired lines at the corners, but the happiness in them is genuine.

Chanyeol grips Sehun’s hand and laces their fingers together. “So did you find it?”

“Find what?”

“What you were looking for.”

Sehun's lips lift into a faint smile.

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing Chanyeol’s hand. “I did.”

-

**Author's Note:**

> *I blame SM Entertainment and W Korea: [(you're welcome).](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D-B9SOUU4AAULv5.jpg)  
> *I don't know jack about the fashion/modelling industry, please forgive any factual inaccuracies TT^TT.  
> *most people/places/brands/events mentioned are real-life references (yes, including Ddori uwu).  
> *title purged from Joji's _Plastic Taste _.__


End file.
